


A Subtle Death

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BAMF Will Graham, Dark Will Graham, God Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter Being Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, M/M, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Psychic Abilities, Someone Help Will Graham, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-14 23:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20609462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: Everyones heard of Jack Crawfords latest team member. An old god, summoned by Jack, who can see things noone else can in the face of death.Naturally, Hannibal takes an interest.





	1. Chapter 1

He’s heard all the stories, though its reliability has been stretched, worn by public fascination and tattle crime. The tragic protagonist, a detective hot on the trail of a child killer, facing the possibility they might not catch this one. Taken off the case, even as more children were being found slaughtered in their homes, bodies defiled, families ruined. The great Detective Jack Crawford, depressed and reeling from the death of his wife, so determined to catch this monster that he took to searching for his solution in the occult.

So he summoned a god, an ancient one.

And he bound that god, with salt and bone and his own blood. 

And just like that, he had the ultimate weapon to hunt down killers. Who better to find them then the god of death, an old god long forgotten, made weak by time and the right rituals?

Hannibal had heard all of this. As a leading psychologist, he’d been asked to look into the man who Jack Crawford called a god, and although he’d turned the offer down (a previous engagement with a rude hygienist and a buzzsaw) he’d followed the story as it had grown and eventually died off. The part of the story that the public was not privy to, but Hannibal had a keen interest in, was that the story had died because nothing more could be said. The assumption that it was no longer mentioned because the man had been disproved was incorrect, the truth of the matter being no one could _disprove_ what the man was. He acted like no other they’d encountered, could do things that no other could do and had 100% success rate in finding killers, so whether that made him a god or a man with a strange empathy disorder was left unanswered. 

So he’s understandably interested when he receives the call to Jack Crawford’s office, professional curiosity overriding the natural instinct to stay separate from law enforcement. Crawford himself is a small disappointment, but then again, he wasn’t a god summoner by nature. He looks tired, a man who once may have been an engaging company, but great loss has drained the energy from his body. He greets Hannibal with a firm handshake, an appraising glance and a terse nod.

“Dr Lecter.”

The scenario he sets is a strange one. The ‘God’ Wilhem, or Will as they have taken to calling him, is having problems adjusting to his new state. While Crawford reassures him several times that the god, although bound, is not here against his will, the fact that an ancient being such as himself is now in a mortal vessel is taking its toll.

“He sees things. I mean, he normally does to solve the crimes, but this is different. He won’t tell me what it is exactly, but it’s troubling him.”

What Crawford doesn’t say is that it’s troubling the god’s effectiveness. Hannibal has only been in the presence of Crawford for 20 minutes, but he gets the sense that the out of the box thinking persona he displayed in summoning a god was a one-time occurrence. A man who cares more about results than process. There’s a flicker of thought at the very back Hannibal’s mind. A gift like Will, who seems to understand death enough to seek out its source, is not something to be wasted even if he isn’t a god. And as long as Crawford thinks his bloodhound is still operational, his interest in Wil will end. 

“I’d be honoured to meet with him, Jack. I’ll see what I can do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THEY MEET

Fields, Hannibal decides, are not for him. From the sweaty and very red face of Crawford, fields are not his preferred environment either. But the man who stands ahead of them looks utterly in his element. He stands away from the suits that search the area for evidence, on a small hill with his head tilted to the sun and body language lax. At ease with the world, even when standing next to a human scarecrow. There’s something about the scene that makes Hannibal lose control, fingers twitching, as he is seized with the desire to draw the man. Haloed in the golden sunlight, maybe as a reimagining of Christ with _him_ on the scarecrow pole. Yes. Perfect. Crawford lets out a muttered “Jesus Christ.” next to Hannibal and he’s surprised the detective had the same thought; he realises moments later, that while he is raptured by the image of life and death ahead of them, Crawford is repulsed. He waves over a woman with dark hair, pointing at the man next to the body.

“Beverly, I told you to keep an eye on him.”

She frowns at him.

“I did. He’s over there.”

Crawford sighs, something that Hannibal is beginning to recognise as a pattern in his behaviour. 

“I can see that. He’s standing next to the body looking like he’s on a fricking _holiday_! Get him over here before the forensics get uncomfortable.”

Beverly shrugs, but there’s disapproval and what might even be disgust in her eyes as she looks at Crawford, before trudging over to the man on the hill. Will, Hannibal supposes. It is interesting to note that while Crawford considers the god a tool, this woman at least seems to hold some affection towards the man, gently touching Will’s shoulder to get him to open his eyes before pointing at Crawford. He doesn’t move. Crawford growls, mumbles something under his breath, and then starts towards the hill with Hannibal following behind. 

First impressions are what appears to be a sleep deprived adult male, with a five o’clock shadow and partially mussed hair. If there is a god for him at the end of this life, Hannibal muses, he hopes that they are dressed in something a little more tasteful then flannel. On this impression alone, an empathy disorder seems more likely than the man being a God, though he’s not sure what he expected a god to be like. But there’s something deep within him, the sense he uses for his hunts and his art, a predator instinct that raises its hackles as the man slowly looks up at him. Crawford is reprimanding will, but his attentions trays towards Hannibal’s direction and Hannibal is gripped by a strange feeling of dread, before Will’s eyes flick up and-

_Fire. Death. Blood. Someone is screaming, someone is dying, I can feel it. I can feel the blood running through my hands, mine or another, another’s or mine. Dead, Dying, death? Firedeathbloodfiredeathbloodfiredeathblood-_

He blinks and it’s over. Crawford is saying something, something inane and stupid and **rude**. Anger courses through Hannibal’s veins, he can feel his mask slipping, his human suit tearing, and Will is watching him. And then he looks back at Jack and the feeling is gone and Hannibal is left staring at the man in confusion with one thought in his mind.

He might just be a God.

He feels someone nudge him then, looks to see Beverly giving him a half smile.

“He did it, didn’t he.”

All Hannibal can do is nod, and her face turns sympathetic. 

“I don’t think he can help it. It’s whatever he was before this I think, and it just bleeds out sometimes. He does it when he’s looking at crime scenes too.”

She chuckles then, before lapsing into silence as they watch Crawford gesture to where Hannibal is standing with exasperation on his face, Will staring blankly back at him. 

“The first time I met him was in the early days. We didn’t all believe. Then he did his thing at a rape murder and you could… feel it. I think we stopped doubting then.”

And Hannibal doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to experience anything more then Will Graham, man and god, so fully submerged in death that it bleeds out into the real world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've received so much positive feedback that I'm genuinely amazed. Thanks everyone!!!! Comments are appreciated because they let me know what you do (or don't) like. I will update a soon as I can but I hope I don't have to tell you sometimes life gets in the way. Great to see the Hannibal fandom is still alive and kicking.


	3. Crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will shows off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so much positive feedback I thought I'd better keep the story going! WHo'd have thought two chapters in one week? Don't get used to it though... but anyway, hope it's ok!!!

As bodies go, this one is sloppy. Not the result of a beginner’s mistake, more a lack of vision and time. It’s dressed in ripped jeans and an open flannel shirt, tied with cheap rope to the metal pole like a basic scarecrow. The ripped open stomach stuffed with hay and the buttons placed where there once were eyes are the only redeeming features, but it’s no work of art. 

Hannibal could have done better.

But he thinks he’d like to help in this one, both to see Will in action and catch the weak mind that did this, so he settles for basic psychiatric input rather than artistic critique.

“Whoever’s done this has dehumanised them. Scarecrows are pseudo-human creations, ultimately a symbol of-“

“Death.”

Will Graham is not a large man, but neither is he slight. Hannibal prides himself on his senses, honed from years of surviving alone and later, hunting. But Will just managed to appear by his side without a single warning sign, no disruption of air, sound or smell to mark his presence. Though that is a lie. Hannibal didn’t notice at first, assuming that it was coming from the body, but Will smells strangely sweet and carries a hint of copper with him. Blood. He wants to know why; is it his form? Is it a consequence of whatever is plaguing him? Is it simply another thing bleeding out from his true self? 

Will moves past him and places his hand on the corpse’s chest. Crawford groans from behind Hannibal, mutters something about evidence contamination, but Will is already talking again. 

“A symbol of fear. Starvation.”

His eyes are closed and his tone is strange, full of emotion that seems to bring tension to the air. And then it happens. The sky darkens and they’re still standing in the field, yet Hannibal can feel something’s wrong. He’s still standing next to Beverly and Crawford, the body is still in front of them with Will standing still next to it. But they’re surrounded by wheat, or at least what was once wheat. It looks ravaged and it isn’t until the murder of crows dive down from the sky that he realises why. Beverly swears behind him as they duck, the sound lost as beneath the beating of wings. Hannibal swats them away, protecting his face as he feels them collide with his body.   
When it stops, the absence of noise is deafening. The crows left something behind though and it takes a couple of seconds before anyone else notices. 

“Oh… Oh god.”

Beverly grasps onto Hannibal’s shoulder, burrowing her head in his back. The wheat is gone and now they stand among hundreds and hundreds of bodies, picked apart by crows. Hannibal turns to check on Will and is surprised to find him standing exactly where he was, though he no longer has his eyes shut. He’s frowning at the bodies, a crow on his shoulder. When he catches Hannibal’s gaze he cocks his head slightly and mouths something. It looks like “block your ears” and Hannibal focuses his attention back to the bodies, looking down at a woman right by his shoe. Slowly, tentatively, he pushes her with his shoe. 

He is expecting… He doesn’t know. What he wasn’t expecting was hands grabbing at his pant leg, clawing at eyeless sockets, and a chorus of screams rising from the corpses around them. He wasn’t expecting Beverly to join in right next to his ear as an eyeless man yanks on her arm, nearly pulling her down. Crawford is equally as useless, swearing loudly as he kicks at the corpses rising around them. The screams are becoming words, a chorus of voices howling with sorrow and pain.

It sounds like they’re saying ‘hunger’.

This development seems to change something for Crawford, who pulls out a knife and before Hannibal can even work out what he’s doing, cuts his hand deeply. Blood drips onto the earth and time freezes. There is silence again until Crawford breaks it.

“Stay on track Wilhelm. This isn’t the death we wanted to see. I think you know that.”

The old god nods solemnly. The crow on his shoulder caws once, before taking off to the air, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake. The smoke spreads and they’re in darkness, then back in the field. But this time there’s a man in front of them with a knife in his hand and a body next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got this from google. Scarecrows are a symbol of death because they stand for the fear of losing the crops to crows; without crops there would be a huge famine, killing everyone, and the crows get the pickings.


	4. Ravenstag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a little sideways when you try and solve a murder with an ancient death god.

The man’s presence is startling in itself. He’s panting, soaked in blood, a vaguely horrified expression on his face. Hannibal instinctively takes a step back, wincing at the minor display of weakness. Thankfully Crawford and Beverly are examining the scene in front of them, Beverly scrawling down notes as Crawford points out the frantic nature of the attack. Will, Hannibal notices, is staring blankly at the body. It is only when Crawford calls him that he appears to come alive, a dog summoned by its master. A small part of Hannibal becomes restless at this thought, of this perfect predator on his short, short leash. 

“Take us back a little more Will. To before the death.”

This time there was no smoke or ravens. Will raised his hand and the scene was moving backwards, blood floating back into the corpse's body, which regained colour and stood up. The knife in the man’s hand was carefully tucked into the waistband of his pants. And then it was if someone pressed play.

“Greg, we can’t keep the farm going like this! We’re paying more for expenses then we’re earning. It doesn’t make sense to keep going, so I’m stopping before we can’t go back. I’m selling it, paying off our debts and getting out of this godforsaken village.”

The murderer, Greg, is furious. But it’s not just his body language that gives that impression. Hannibal can almost feel it, can feel his anger. He worked so hard for the farm, it’s been in their family for generations and this idiot is going to give it all away like it’s nothing. 

“Please John, lets talk about this. The next harvest is looking promising, I’ll do overtime, I’ve got some ideas on how to-“

A cruel laugh from the victim. 

“You think I don’t know about your superstition shit? The fucking creepy runes or whatever you’ve been doodling everywhere? It’s not gonna _help_ Greg. Wake up. The only thing that’s gonna help is money, and we’re haemorrhaging that at an insane rate. It’s done John.”

The burst of anger that hits Hannibal like a wave is quickly followed by a knife in the victims back. He falls and rolls over, weakly batting at his business partner as he is stabbed repeatedly. When he stops fighting, the man stands up, resuming the position they first saw. Then he kneels down and begins to cut, creating the subpar work that they’d been called too. And he cuts. And he cuts. Trapped in a loop he carves at flesh, pulling out entrails, before pushing them back in and running his knife over healing cuts. Hannibal wants to ask if this is supposed to happen, if the scene is replaying so they can analyse it. But Crawford looks confused, and it’s easy to see why. Because in the second it takes Hannibal to blink there is a stag standing over the repeating murder. And its gaze is locked on Will. 

Who takes a step towards it.

“Will, stay.”

He takes another step, ignoring Crawford’s call. Hannibal moves so he is in front of the man, and frowns. His eyes are half closed and his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. Carefully he lifts one of Will’s eyelids, finds that the eye darts back and forth blindly as it glows its strange blue light.

“He’s asleep Jack.”

“Shit.”

He stares at the stag. Hannibal has a feeling that seeing Jack Crawford speechless is a rare occurrence, but here he is. Beverly doesn’t seem to comprehend the depth of the situation, faintly asking what they’re all looking at. She can’t see the thinly veiled panic in Crawford’s eyes as he looks at the shadow stag and then at the God.

“Can you wake him up?”

Hannibal isn’t sure if he _should_ be woken up. Will tries to take another step towards the stag, Hannibal blocking his way. The unconscious man pauses for a second, before trying again. Beverly, standing beside him, suddenly grasps onto his arm.

“Oh god, oh fuck, what’s happening? Crawford, this isn’t what normally happens!”

Hannibal turns to get a glimpse and finds that things have changed since he last looked. The stag is now something from a nightmare, fur matted with blood and ichor, eyes burning red and black. And behind it, rising from the ground, is a figure. Not a man, not with the ink black skin and pale white eyes. Not with the antlers that rise high from his head. He stretches out a hand, long and clawed, and whispers.

“Death.”

The stag snorts, begins to paw at the ground.

“Bound.”

Shadows flicker out from the stag’s hooves as they hit the ground.

“By blood and salt.”

The shadows spread, devouring the victim and his murderer as they surge towards Hannibal and the others like a wave of darkness.

“Shall be freed.”

The wave is almost at them. Dread hits Hannibal and he realises that this might be the end. No more art, no more life, no more death. Disgust fills him as he realises that he may be removed from existence while pigs and cretins continue to sully it. He opens his mouth, to cry out or protest he does not know.

“With blood and silver and bone.”

The wave hits them. Everything is black, a void of sound and senses and sight. 

Then they’re standing in the field, and Beverly is screaming, startling some very confused lab techs nearby. 

“Hannibal?”

It takes Hannibal a moment to realise that he is still clutching Will by the shoulders. He goes to answer, but Will interrupts with a weak “Catch me.” before collapsing. 

Of course, Hannibal catches him. And as he holds the man, unconscious for the second time today, to his chest Hannibal decides that he might go hunting tonight. What else is one to do when they realise there is a god, other than to offer them a bountiful sacrifice. It's basic etiquette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is not very good, and it's been so long. I've got ideas for this fic but it's just filling in the gaps between those checkpoints. But hey, I gave you Hannibal cradling Will to his chest. Kinda. IM TRYING!


	5. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, huh? I am so sorry. Please take this and enjoy.

Hannibal isn’t all too familiar with what Old God’s deem acceptable sacrifices, so he does his research. His initial disappointment at the offers of wheat and prayers, something he doesn’t think a creature as exquisite as Will deserves, are soothed when he reaches the Wicker Man. The image is striking, the craftmanship detailed. Interesting.

_**He struggles, but that’s to be expected. It wouldn’t be a hunt if there wasn’t prey to chase.** _

The next morning he knocks on Will’s door. The God opens it, dressed in a ratty t-shirt and boxers, face schooled into a neutral expression. Hannibal puts on his best mask, the polite but firm smile with just enough teeth, and shakes the still warm container in his hand.

“I brought you breakfast. Assuming you eat, of course.”

Will stares at him, blue eyes unflinching. But he steps out of the doorway, which is invitation enough for Hannibal. The first thing that strikes Hannibal is that this is not what a god’s house should look like. It is cluttered with books and papers, the furniture has seen better days and if Hannibal isn’t mistaken, there’s a distinct smell of dog in the air. Stranger though, is that while perhaps not the cleanest place to live it feels… almost _cosy_. Like some sort of nest, no, a burrow. A hiding place. Silently, Will pulls two chipped plates from his cupboard and places them on the rickety table in the corner.

_ **The pig squeals. Bites. Teeth catch on gloved fingers, vomit sprays covered shoes, blood defaces the ground. The scalpel is light in his hand as he cuts, taking, carving. He makes sure it is still alive though, still breathing, stops himself taking too much. There is no art here, not yet anyway, but that is part of what makes it a sacrifice. **_

He unclips the Tupperware container, slides it towards Will, who scrapes it onto the plate. Lifts a fork, spears a piece of-

“What is this? Barbecue?”

_ **The snivelling mess mewls softly as it is lifted into the wicker shell. Hannibal pauses to look at his work, finds himself smiling.** _

_ **“The Wickerman was referenced as a part of neopagan-themed ceremonies, focused around the human sacrifice of delinquents to the Celtic gods.”** _

_ **Ignoring the muffled sobs coming from within, he shuts the wicker shell. It stands tall and proud in the field, and for a moment it almost feels like a shame to burn it.** _

_ **“ Did you know that Wilhem means Vehement protector? Centuries ago, there was a Celtic God called Wilhelm. The texts that mention him are few, and he is rarely addressed as Wilhelm. They called him the Hound, the Hunt, the Wild. He was the protector of the weak, but also their vengeance. Historians often gloss over that.”** _

_ **He pulls out his lighter, flicks it open and watches the flame shiver under the cold night sky. Lights the wicker man and watches it burn, listens to the crackle and the screams and the wind.** _

_ **“Criminals are favourable. Thralls work too if the village in question can’t find a crime worth punishing. Wilhelm is not a God who takes pleasure in innocent deaths, but you are not truly innocent… the dog you let howl through the night and then beat in the morning should be enough justice to warrant Wilhelm’s favour.”** _

_ **The fire is high in the sky now, reaching up, up, up. Hannibal wonders if Will can feel it, wonders if somewhere in the dark he can feel the power flooding through his veins just as the power surges through Hannibal’s. ** _

_**” Beannachd Dia dhuit” **_  
He watches as Will places the piece of kidney into his mouth, watches as something like recognition moves across his features like ripples in a pond. It fades just as quickly. The look levelled at Hannibal is measured, laying him down to the bone and locking straight onto his soul. For a moment Hannibal is fully aware of what he has just done, not who, but _what_ he has served his hunt too. In response, he lets his human suit part slightly, lets the stitches holding it together sag and open. Waits patiently to be acknowledged. 

“Smoked pork liver sausage. Prepared this morning by myself.”

“I’m not here for you.”

Sudden, but not unexpected. Trust issues were always a consideration, especially applied to Will's particular situation. If Hannibal was bound to Jack Crawford he too would probably find himself anticipating the yank of his leash when met with a glimpse of freedom.

“What makes you think I thought you were?”

Will looks slowly down at the liver still on his plate. Hannibal wonders if the God will say it, put what sits between them into words. He doesn’t. Instead, he growls, and Hannibal gets the flash of feral, untamable wilderness that is so often attributed to Wilhelm in the stories.

“I am not something that can be bought. You are may not be a common man Dr Lecter, but you’re no god either. Do not think to kill in my name and be thanked for the courtesy.”

“I expect nothing from you, dear Will. Just conversation.”

The God scoffs.

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

The eyes are what betrays him. WIll has shown an aversion to eye contact, is used to guarding his body language and words but hasn't quite mastered his eyes. In this moment they are locked with his, and he can read them like a book. They are distrustful, uneasy, and Hannibal has the sense that he may have come on too fast for someone who has been imprisoned after a millennia of roaming. Will is looking for the quickest way out, to sever the link forming between them, but his words are empty. So Hannibal leans back, lips twitching. Will has decided not to see him, not truly anyway, but he will.

“You will.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is not until now that I discovered the pain of writing the name Will and the word will next to each other. I don't know how people do it. Anyway, had this idea suddenly listening to DND and had the time. Enjoy...?


End file.
